As usual, he sensed that something didn’t tally but couldn’t bring it into focus. So he got up and started walking around the apartment and fussing about in each room. At one point he even opened the shutter to the balcony off the living room and went outside.
In the street right in front of the building, a convertible had stopped, and two young people, a boy and a girl, were kissing. They had the radio—or whatever it was—at full volume.
Montalbano leapt backwards. Not because he was scandalized by what he saw, but because he finally understood why he’d felt the need to return to the apartment.
He went back to the study, sat down, searched for the right key in Angelo’s set, put it in the lock to the middle drawer, opened this, took out the little book entitledThe Most Beautiful Italian Songs of All Time,and started leafing through it.
All the songs dated back to the forties and fifties. He, Montalbano, probably wasn’t even born when people were singing those songs to themselves. And, more importantly— or so it seemed to him—they had nothing to do with the CDs in the Mercedes, which all had rock music.
8
There were numbers written in the narrow white margin on each page of the booklet. The first time he’d seen them, the inspector had thought they involved some sort of analysis of the meter. Now, however, he realized that the numbers referred to only the first two lines of each song. Next to the linesPale little lady, sweet fifth-floor neighbor
As he was about to enter the Trattoria da Enzo, Montalbano heard someone call him. He stopped and turned. Elena Sclafani was getting out of a sort of red missile, a convertible, which she had just parked. She was wearing a track suit and gym shoes, her long hair flowing onto her shoulders and held in place only by a light blue headband slightly above her forehead. Her blue eyes were smiling, and her red lips, which looked painted, were no longer pouting.
“I’ve never eaten here before. I’ve just come from the gym, so I’ve got a hearty appetite.”
A wild animal, young and dangerous. Like all wild animals.
And, in the end, like all youth,the inspector thought with a twinge of melancholy.
Enzo sat them down at a table a bit apart from the others. But there weren’t many people there in any case.
“What would you like?” he asked.
“Is there no menu?” asked Elena.
“It’s not the custom here,” said Enzo, looking at her dis-approvingly.
“Would you like a seafood antipasto? It’s excellent here,” said Montalbano.
“I eat everything,” Elena declared.
The look Enzo gave her suddenly changed, turning not only benevolent but almost affectionate. “Then leave it up to me,” he said.
“There’s a slight problem,” said Montalbano, who wanted to cover himself. “What’s that?”
“You suggested we go out to lunch together, and I was happy to accept. But …”
“Come on, out with it. Your wife—” “I’m not married.”
“Something serious?”
“Yes.” “Why was he answering her? “The problem is that when I eat, I prefer not to talk.” She smiled.
“You’re the one who’s supposed to ask the questions,” she said. “If you don’t, then I don’t have to answer. And anyway, if you really must know, when I do something, I like to do only that one thing.”
The upshot was that they scarfed down the antipasto, the spaghetti with clam sauce, and crispy fried mullets, all the while exchanging only inarticulate sounds along the lines ofahm, ohm,anduhm,which varied only in intensity and color. And a few times they saidohm ohmin unison, while looking at each other. When it was over, Elena stretched her legs under the table, half closed her eyes, and heaved a deep sigh. Then, like a cat, she stuck out the tip of her tongue and licked her lips. She very nearly started purring.
The inspector had once read a short story by an Italian author that told of a country where making love in public not only caused no scandal but was actually the most natural thing in the world, whereas eating in the presence of others was considered immoral because it was such an intimate thing. A question came into his head and almost made him laugh. Want to bet that before long, because of age, he would be content to take his pleasure from women merely by sitting at the same table and eating with them?
“So where do we go now to talk?” asked Montalbano.
“Do you have things to do?”
“Not immediately.”
“I’ve got another idea. Let’s go to my place, I’ll make you some coffee. Emilio’s in Montelusa, as I think I already told you. Did you bring your car?”
“Yes.”
“Then just follow me, so you can leave whenever you like.”
Keeping up with the missile was not easy. At a certain point Montalbano decided to forget it. He knew the way, after all. In fact, when he arrived, Elena was waiting for him at the front door, a gym bag hanging from her shoulder.
